Messages
by Sanctuary Dreamer
Summary: Francis can feel the Black Dog growing bigger, making it nearly painful to breath. He doesn't know how much longer he can struggle for air. Staring at the messages on the screen, all he can see, are reminders of how alone he is, and very few reasons to care any longer. Why should he? What's the point, when it's clear he doesn't matter? Rated M for Depression, suicide and emeto


**A warning. This story speaks of depression, mentions of self-harm, suicide, and very heavy emotions. It delves rather deeply into the feeling of Francis, and what he is thinking and going through. No details are spared. So please, read with caution. RaindropsOnMyTeaCup, a few months ago, wrote a story of the same subject, per a request I sent in, in her story, A Collection of Ideas. And, it meant the world to me. I do greatly recommend reading it, as well as her other stories. I greatly enjoy her writing, she's one of my favorite authors. She gave me the motivation and inspiration to write this one, and three months later, here it is. This was originally going to be a FrUk as well, but I wasn't sure how to make it so I'm this story. So, for the time being, there is no relationship.**

 **Thank you for taking the time to read this, and I do hope you enjoy it.**

* * *

A dark room. Only illuminated by the soft glow of his phone as it lit up on the night table, emphasized by a tinny chime. For a moment, it was left alone. Not a single motion. The light wasn't given a chance to die down again before the chime alerted him again. After a moment of hesitance, a hand poked out from under the covers. Feeling around the table top, and trying to find the source of the noise. Soft fingers ran across the smooth metal of the alarm clock. The chipped wood of the small lamp. The soft skin of one, two, three tissues. And finally, the chilled screen of the noisy phone. He pulled it closer, so it rested on the bed. Then, with his other hand, he grasped the top of his blanket and pulled it down, with a soft yawn. He slept for what felt like days, and yet he was still so tired. With his free hand, his wiped his eyes, clearing them of foreign substances that blurred his vision. Crust, sleep, and the hair that draped over his violet eyes. Even when he had managed to clean his vision enough to see the world again, he found himself squinting. What time was it? The lights were off, but it was still too dark. It wasn't already night time was it? Just a few hours ago, he had gotten out of bed when the alarm went off, brushed his teeth, took his medicine, had some tea and then went back to bed. He had meant to rest for a moment. But he had gone too long. He sighed heavily, and tried to hide his face into his pillow, all wrinkled and flat. Why was he surprised? This was what happened yesterday. And the day before that. And the day before that...

How long had it been? Surely he hadn't wasted all those days away like this? What else had he done? He called Matthew two days ago. Because his little one was having trouble with his brother. Then...he read a little that afternoon too. But when he tried to recall what it was he read, his brain became foggy. Francis sighed, and pulled the covers a little tighter around himself, despite how warm it felt. So lazy. He was so lazy. All he had done was sleep. He couldn't make himself stand. He couldn't make himself clean, or wash, or cook, or do just about anything. He just couldn't find the strength, or the energy. Or the point... 'Today was another lazy day wasn't it? So stupid. You're being so stupid. All you had to do was get up, and do it. You have no one to blame but yourself for this. All of these excuses. You made them yourself.' He hide his face away, and sighed again. 'Why are you like this? If you can't do these things for yourself, how are you supposed to do anything, for anyone else?'

 _Depression._ That ugly word kept circling in his head, but that didn't make it any easier to swallow. He could treat it all he wanted to, but it wouldn't go away. What caused it he wondered? Why was this happening? He had been told it could happen to anyone, but he had also been told it could be triggered by trauma. He couldn't help but chuckle. If that were the case, wouldn't all the nations be depressed? Unless they were hiding it too. Or something. Francis had to think about that. Arthur dealt with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. It had quite a bad effect on him. And both his little one and Kiku, dealt with anxiety. He didn't know if that was caused by the past as well. But he could only make guesses at this point. Trauma huh?

Francis was a happy nation. He always had been. He smiled, even when his world crumbled to pieces around him. And he smiled for the nations who couldn't do it by themselves. He tried his best to pick them up when they fell. He didn't want them to feel alone, or sad. Sometimes, of course, he was pushed away or scolded for his efforts. But that didn't matter to him. All he wanted, was to try at the very least. Sometimes, his efforts helped, and he could at least help them manage a small smile. That always meant the world to him. Admittedly, it wasn't easy. Sometimes, he got his heart stepped on, or even broken by those close to him because of his persistence. Insults, accusations of not taking something seriously enough, or making things worse. Sometimes, he was even ignored or shunned. He watched them get their hearts broken or damaged, and he tried hard to help them put themselves back together. But when it was all over, he would sit down, and patch his own heart up again. He was not perfect. He could admit that. He smothered. He got too touchy-feely sometimes. He joked around too much. He was too confident, and vain at times. Spoiled even! Perhaps that was why they pushed him away. And why he had to patch up his heart so many times. Tiny cracks formed when he was insulted or pushed away. They got bigger when it was someone so close, or if they persisted. The biggest cracks formed though when it came to personal tragedies. Certain things he would never ever forget and his heart would likely never recover from. When Matthew went away, or when Joan died, or when he had to fight against his best friend in the Franco-Prussian war. Leaving big, big wounds he would never see healed. Perhaps that's what happened. Maybe that's why he felt this way. Maybe that was why when he fell this hard, all he could think about were the mistakes and the heartache. Blaming himself for the things he could have done to make things better. And for not doing what he could do now, in order to make things better.

It felt like a weight was pressing against his chest, making it hard to breathe. Every action took so much more effort and left him exhausted, and sad. No. Sad wasn't the right word. He felt...empty. Sometimes, he felt too much of one thing. And sometimes, he felt too much of something else. The worst of it though, was when he felt nothing at all. All he could do then was lie there. And sleep. He began to think back to his somewhat younger days. When he first began to deal with these suffocating feelings of nothing. He was frightened and so desperate to feel something, anything! And in doing so, he made mistakes. A few mistakes. Thankfully, he managed to wisen up, and he promised himself it wouldn't happen again. Still, though, he had been close now and again, to falling into his old ways again and letting his impulsivity overtake him.

After a moment, the cloudiness that had been lingering slowly drifted away, and he brought the phone closer so he could have a look. The soft light from the screen made him squint, and blink a few times before he could read what it said. The first thing he took note of, was the time. _8:23 PM._ It was a little late. Not as late as he thought it would be, but still late. Then, he read the messages. The last one was from Matthew, just a few minutes ago.

Y _ou didn't answer when I knocked. I have the files you asked for._ Files? Did he ask for any? Ah, so forgetful he was. _I left them in your mailbox then if it's alright._

Following that, was a second message. _Papa, did you go out?_ Ah, wait a moment. This was the first message. He read it backward. How silly. He scanned his messages again, wondering if he said anything more. But, there wasn't a single message more from Matthew. Instead, he found three more, from three different people. Before the messages, he could see a missed call from Ludwig, just under Matthews messages. After that, the first message was from Arthur, as cross as always.

 _Froggie, your stupid briefcase has been here since last week. Ludwig's getting rather cross. When are you going to come and get it? I would have brought it by myself I suppose, but I'm going off with Alfred after work today. Anyways, hurry up and get it._ When was that one sent? That was this morning, wasn't it?

The next one was from Ludwig. His heart sank a bit when he noticed the date. Three days ago. _How many time do I have to tell you to call in if you are not going to be present? Honestly, all you're doing is adding more work for me to do. Think next time if you don't mind. I've emailed you a spreadsheet and a document regarding what you missed. If I had known you were going to not come in, I could have prepared beforehand instead of having to stay late. Again. Read and review for our Friday conference._ By the time he had finished reading the message, Francis felt his bottom lip trembling, ever so slightly. Stupid Ludwig. It wasn't his fault. He didn't do anything wrong. He did call! Didn't he? He couldn't remember now. That meeting was three days ago. When was the next one supposed to be? Oh dear, was that today? No wonder Ludwig called him. He was sure to be yelled at when he called him back. How scary...

The last message was dated on the same day as Ludwig's message. This one was from Alfred. _Dude! H8 to ask u this, but can u give me a loan? I'm running short and Luddy's being a total asshole. I was asking him all day, and he wasn't budging. He told me to ask someone else and stop bothering him. His face was all red hahaha! Anyways, so how about it?_ Francis could only suspect Alfred asked someone else after that because there wasn't a follow-up message. Should he even bother with a reply? After a bit of consideration, he set the phone down on the sheets, not bothering with it.

He brought his hands up and rubbed at his eyes once more. How stupid. Why were his eyes filling with tears once again? How many tears had he shed since this whole episode began? How many times had he cried over silly things, or things from the past, or even over nothing at all? So ridiculous. Why was he crying now though? He had nothing to cry over now. Surely he wasn't crying because...no. He didn't care. It was fine. He hadn't shown his face in quite a while, so it was only reasonable that they would stop caring, or thinking about where he could be. Why wouldn't they? He was a pest anyways. Why would they care anyway? Francis sniffled softly and tried his best to dry his eyes. He was being ridiculous. But he couldn't deny how he felt. He hated feeling this way, he really did. Yet, no matter what he did, it kept creeping up on him and made him feel pathetic.

He lie there for a moment later until he couldn't stand the taste of his own breath, and the scent he detected on the sheets. When was the last time he had properly bathed? With a grunt of effort, he pushed himself into a seated position. Once there though, he didn't move. He stared into the darkness that enveloped his bedroom. He waited for a moment until he felt able enough to crawl out of bed. Pushing himself to his feet, he gasped slightly when he knees buckled. Once he was still, he walked across the bedroom, and into his small bathroom. He hesitated for a moment, not sure if he dared turn on the lights. He was probably so disheveled and disgusting. He hadn't showered or kept his hair tidy. He hadn't even shaved. The most he managed to do, was brush his teeth, and take his medicine. Those stupid pills, he hated choking them down. What was the point? They hardly helped anymore. All they did was make him nauseous, and dizzy. Sometimes even anxious. Why did he even bother?

After a moment of hesitance, he reached out, and ran his hand along the wall, in search of the light switch, after setting his phone on the counter. Once he found it, he turned it on, bathing the bathroom in light. And slowly, he lifted his head and stared into the mirror.

Along with it, he could feel a drop in his stomach. He could only look for a moment, before lowering his head once again. He didn't want to see the shaggy man in the mirror anymore. He could practically feel every single strand of his oily hair pressed against his face, and the itch his long whiskers brought. So dirty. So disgusting. He couldn't go out like this. Maybe he hadn't had anyone asking if he was okay, because he looked this way. Did they see this every day? No, of course not. It was only because he hadn't taken care of himself properly lately. This wasn't every day though. His breath was shaky, as he let out a long breath. It might as well be every day though. He was so lazy and stupid. He might as well look this way every day. Maybe he did, but he just didn't realize it. Was that why they didn't care? Maybe if he was nicer looking, than they would. Maybe if he- _Stop it!_ He shook his head angrily. Why was he thinking this way? He had friends, and he had a family. He wasn't alone. He wasn't ugly. He wasn't stupid. He supposed it was easy to forget though at times. Wasn't that a bit selfish? He couldn't say for sure. Oh, God. He just wanted to feel better. He didn't want to feel this way anymore.

Staring down, his eyes trailed down his arms. Along with the coarse hair that lined his skin, he could also see the remnants of his past mistakes. Faded injuries that he inflicted during times of confusion. When he felt too much of one thing, and couldn't handle the overwhelming emotion. Or when he didn't feel enough and needed to be reminded he was still alive. He had been able to set down the blade, and not pick it up again in centuries. And he could admit he felt proud about that. But still. The guilt would never ever leave him be, not for a second. He reached up, his elbows pressed against the cold and hard porcelain of the sink countertop, and ran his fingers through his hair. He could feel the oil between his fingers, making him shudder. So disgusting.

What was it going to take to make him feel okay? What was it going to take to make him feel normal? Maybe...maybe he wasn't depressed. Perhaps it was just emotions that were overwhelming him and making him feel bad. He was being overdramatic and thinking too much. He was getting worked up, and taking sick days, just because he felt this way. He was empty. And when he wasn't empty, he was weighted down. He was angry because no one understood. He was sad because no one cared. He was lonely because he went and isolated himself from the world. He was guilty because he was throwing himself pity-parties he didn't deserve and making everyone work harder just for his sake. He tightened his grip in his hair at the thought. They all worked so hard, just to make up for what he lacked. Especially Ludwig... Ludwig worked so much harder then he had ever seen a person work before. He would never forget last month, when a pale-faced and overworked Ludwig passed out, right there in the conference room. He had to be whisked away to the hospital for treatment. It had been terrifying, for him, and everyone else involved. Francis sniffled. He hadn't made his work-load any easier, had he? He knew it wasn't all his fault. Everyone could have pitched in and help make things easier. Not just him right?

After a moment more of nothing more than brooding, he finally lifted his head and reached for the medicine cabinet for the second time today. One in the morning. One at night. Just as usual. He opened up the glass and pulled out the little orange bottle. It was a tad heavy, as it had recently been refilled. About 83 pills left inside. He slowly twisted open the cap and pinched out one of the blue and white pills. Thick and just as hard to swallow as the reality he lived in. He popped it in and used the water from the sink to swallow it down. Then, he just stood there. Why was he still taking these? They didn't help. They didn't do anything. He glanced at the bottle for a moment. When he brought that up to his doctor, he was given a higher dose, told to take them twice a day instead of once. It was supposed to make him feel better. It was supposed to make him feel normal. And for a period of time, it did. But lately, once again, he had fallen flat. He felt just as poorly as he had before.

As he stared, a thought came to mind. It was brief, and he was tempted to ignore it, but it kept popping back into his head. If it took two pills to feel better, and it stopped working, did he need...more? Perhaps he needed more.

Without thinking, or letting himself snap back into reality, he pinched out another pill and was quick to swallow it dry. Once he had, he paused. He didn't do a thing. Just stood there, waiting. He couldn't say what he was waiting for, to be honest. But he was waiting. 'Maybe two isn't enough. I need to wait for the effects to kick in of course. But, what if that wasn't enough? Maybe I need another. Just one more. That's all.' He pinched out another pill. But he didn't take it. Instead, he stared. 'Who's to say three is enough. Maybe four. Or five. How many are in this bottle again? How many are left?' Before he could think, or even take a moment to really understand what he was doing, or why he was doing it, he began his deadly binge. Pill after pill. Swallow after swallow. He could barely taste the tears that streamed down his face. He felt like his mouth was stuffed full of cotton, and like every stitch in his heart was coming apart. He needed more. Or else his heart would completely come apart! He'd feel better! He'd feel better!

 _STOP IT! What are you doing! You're going to kill yourself! Stop it!_

'But you're wrong. Somewhat. I might feel better. I might get well again. I'll take them all. That way, I'll never have to take them again.' His thoughts battled back and forth. A part of him knew what he was doing, and knew that he was being a fool. His mind continued to plead with him to stop, to put it down, to do something! But his heart said otherwise. Filling him with some form of logic that even he could not understand. But slowly, they swarmed together. His head and his heart formed one thought. One coherent thought. Something he understood, and just pushed him to keep going.

'Either you'll feel better. Or you'll die. Either way, someone is going to benefit. Either you'll be happy. Or everyone else will be. You can tell yourself whatever you want, but the truth is lying right in front of you. You don't matter. Not to anyone.'

His fingers scrapped plastic, and only then did he stop. He lowered his head slowly, which had been tilted back, and stared at what was in his hand.

An empty bottle. All 80, gone. How had he done that? Without even noticing too. It was all gone. Francis set the bottle on the counter and was very still. What could he do now? Was he to go back to bed? Or just stay here and wait? Maybe he should call someone. Just in case. He couldn't say for sure. This didn't feel real. None of this felt real. The bathroom was so quiet. All he could hear was a very faint ringing in his ears. He didn't know what to do. He felt like if he moved, he would fall. What was he supposed to do with his hands? What was he supposed to say? How did one breath again? How did one move? How does one speak? He felt as though he had forgotten everything. This wasn't real. None of this was real. It was all a dream, wasn't it? Just a dream. A very...very bad dream. He closed his eyes after a moment, letting the silence wrap him up. He wasn't scared. He wasn't sad. He wasn't even guilty. He just felt empty. So very empty.

Something broke past the silence. Something invaded the empty air, making him open his eyes. He scanned the room for a moment before his eyes fell on the counter. His phone. That damned thing alerting him once again. With a hand that he could not recognize as his own, he reached across the counter and picked it up. He stared at the screen blankly.

Even the ringing in his ears seemed to stop, when he saw the brief, three-word message, from Matthew.

 _Are you okay?_

He had to read it twice more, just to make sure he was reading it right. What prompted this? Why did he ask? Why did he care? Francis stood still, not able to answer it. His lips moved, as though he wanted to answer, but he just couldn't. A few minutes later, another message popped up on the screen. A somewhat longer one, that he could not read in its entirety, prompting him to open his messages and read the messages that went down the screen.

 _Oh gosh, I don't mean to bother you. I just thought I should ask. I haven't seen you in almost a week, and when I asked around, no one else had either. It's not like you to disappear for this long. I'm starting to get worried. Your friends were telling me they were too. I think they were going to try to contact you too. I know Ludwig seemed a bit cross when he tried to call you. But, he seemed just a tad worried. Please be safe okay?_

 _Please be safe okay?_

 _Please be safe okay?_

 _Are you okay?_

 _I'm starting to get worried_

 _Telling me they were too_

 _He seemed just a bit worried_

Word by word, letter by letter, note by note. Francis read it over and over again. He could feel something washing over him. He could feel himself breathing again. He could feel his heart beating, resonating in the small bathroom. He could hear his own choked whimpers. He could taste the salty tears that ran past his eyes, some of which catching in his lips. They cared. They cared about him. They were worried about him and wanted him to be safe. They loved him. They cared about him. His friends. His son. All of them. All of them….

Oh God...what had he done?!

With Francis's senses slowly coming back and letting him think, he slowly came to realize what had happened. He let his impulses take him once again. And he was a mistake. A terrible...terrible mistake.

Francis dropped the phone to the ground and stumbled over to his little toilet. He sunk down to his knees and panted softly. Without a moment's hesitation, he tilted his head back, just a tad. And after taking a deep breath, he shoved two of his fingers down his throat, gagging softly. 'This isn't right! None of this is right! I don't want to die! I never wanted to die! This was just a big mistake! I didn't mean it! Please help me! Oh God, please help me! Get them out! Get it out!' He somehow managed to cough a bit past his fingers and felt his stomach turn warningly. Francis barely managed to pull his fingers out of the way, before his stomach overturned, and those disgusting pills, mixed with bile and his stomach's content came spilling out of him, and into the clean porcelain. His knuckles became white as he gripped onto the toilet, heaving forcefully in an attempt to rid himself of everything in his stomach. 'Get it out! Get it all out!'

Coughing and choking, his body slowly managed to stop vomiting. But it was only for a moment. As soon as he had managed to stop, he pushed his fingers right back in. There was still more in there, he could just feel it. He had to get it all out, he couldn't leave anything behind. It didn't take too much prompting before he was able to vomit once again. His hair slipped past his shoulders, leaving the tips to get dirty. His throat burned from the acidic content that was being forced out of him. The contractions of his stomach were making it hurt terribly, nearly unbearable. But he didn't stop, not for a moment. He couldn't count how many times he repeated this cycle. Over and over and over again. He pushed himself, to keep it up. His friends, his family, his work, his country, he loved it all so much. He didn't want to leave it behind. He didn't want to die. He wanted to live, and thrive, and work to get better. He wanted to make his country better. He wanted to see what happened next. He wanted to see what the future held for him and his loved ones. He couldn't let death take him too soon, and take away everything he worked for. He didn't want to leave it all. He...he loved his life! And he let a moment of weakness nearly take it all away. He couldn't let it happen.

It felt like hours had passed since it had all begun. It felt like he had been here all night. He only stopped, when all that came up was yellowish bile. When everything was empty. When he could do no more. With a shaky hand, he closed the toilet seat and rested his head. He felt dizzy and sick. But euphoric at the same time. He did it. He had saved his own life. He was going to live. He was going to be okay. No pill was going to kill him, no way in hell.

He sat up, just a bit, and ran his fingers through his hair. It was only then that he realized how furiously his fingers were trembling. He stared at his fingers for a moment, just barely managing a smile. 'Why am I scared? I lived. I'm alive. And no pill is ever going to kill me. No way in hell. I'm stronger than that. I am France after all. One of the strongest in the world.' He hesitated. And slowly, another thought came to mind. 'That's right. I'm France. Even...even if I had truly wanted to die, I wouldn't. Nations can't die. Not by their own hands. So long as the country stays standing, then so will I. I could have been shot, and I would still not die. So, what was the point of that?' He felt his stomach cramp up once again, making him smirk, just a little. 'Ah. But I can still get sick. I can still suffer, just like everyone else. So, what was the point of any of this? I'm going to pay for this, I just know it.'

And, he began to laugh. Part of him didn't understand why he laughed in this way. Perhaps he was just so exhilarated, or euphoric. Because he had lived! Maybe he found this amusing some way. Or he was laughing at his own stupid mistakes. But perhaps, it was to ward off the tears. To stop himself from crying. Because as soon as his laughter died down, it was replaced with sobs. The fear, and the guilt, and the sadness were starting to kick in. He could have died. This was by no means the first time he had a brush with death. He was a nation after all. He had seen the face of death many many times before, just as everyone else had. Perhaps it was the idea, that something so small and so simple nearly ended him, was what brought along such fer. Perhaps it was because, even if he denied it, he knew exactly what he had tried to do. Or maybe it was the knowledge of just how much he would have left behind. If Matthew hadn't left him such a message….Mathew…

Francis swiped his phone up from the ground, and stared at the screen. 20 minutes. That's how long it had been since he began his purge. He could see a missed call from Antonio, one of his dearest friends. And some sort of a joke from Gilbert that he could barely read past his tears. He opened the messages once again, and took a few more moments, trying to type past his tears. He wanted to say thank you. Or tell him he was okay. Anything to reassure him, and not cause him to worry. But his shaky fingers and blurred vision made it difficult to see anything he typed. He typed and deleted, typed and deleted, over again. So, he gave up. And he typed a short, and brief, yet vague little message. He sent it, lie still on the cold, tile floor, and sobbed.

 _Help me._

* * *

 **To me, this story took a few months for a reason. It was...important, I suppose. Important to me. Recently, I've been in a bad ways. I've only just managed to get back on my feet, and yet I can already feel the cycle starting to repeat itself again. I based his emotions, off of ones I've felt for myself. Guilt, sadness, emptiness, all of them are very real. Triggered by stress, heartache, and sometimes, by nothing at all. The depression, the self-harm, and even the scary thoughts of my own demise. I tend to push a lot of my feelings onto Francis, in order to sort of have someone to relate to at times. Thats why Francis has always been my favorite. And that's why this story was so important to me. And why it took me so long. So, I'm very grateful if you took the time to read it. And please, take care of yourself okay? I'm always here if you want to talk, or vent. I want to help you. I truly do.**

 **Thank you.**


End file.
